Why do professional artists make art? I don’t mean in some big, existential way. I mean literally: why this piece, right now? Being an artist is a job. But it’s not a job with office hours or a boss breathing down your neck. Or is it? It’s easy to imagine otherwise. If you’re successful, you’ve got the fancy loft, the beach house, a handful of rail-thin assistants with eyebrow rings. You can roll out of bed, wander into the studio, scratch your butt, and make whatever’s on your mind. Pretty...
8 days ago • 3 min read
A lot of creative people tell me they get roadblocked by procrastination. There are always so many other things to do. Creative projects slip to the back burner, and a voice in their heads keeps telling them they should be doing something else instead of developing their art. So, how do you stay on track and make the things you’ve dreamed about? Here’s what works for me. The fact is if I really want to do something, I find the time. I always find time to eat French fries. I never forget to...
15 days ago • 2 min read
For thirty years, my job was to kick ass. I worked in advertising, which meant I was in a constant state of competition. Every meeting, every pitch, every campaign was about being the sharpest, the fastest, the most convincing voice in the room. I had to serve up hot ideas on demand, solve problems overnight, and make my work eclipse whatever and whoever came before. I was good at it. Good enough to win cash and prizes, and to stay in the ring for years. Once, I was hired to freelance for...
22 days ago • 3 min read
I plan to read more literary novels. But sometimes I end up blowing through a cheesy thriller that I grabbed at the library. JJ buys kale to make healthy salads, and then we find ourselves eating frozen pizza on the couch. I add Kurosawa and Bergman movies to my Netflix list, but I also rewatch the same episode of Seinfeld for the fifth time because it makes me laugh, and I already know how it ends. I like to think I have standards. I know what "good" is, or at least I have some idea. But I’m...
29 days ago • 2 min read
Lately, I’ve been spending time with a new online tool called Cosmos. It’s a way to collect and curate visual inspiration—kind of like Pinterest, but without the ads, algorithms, and kitchen makeovers. What sets Cosmos apart is its focus: it’s filled with images curated by designers, illustrators, and artists. Real people with real taste. And the quality of what they’ve gathered is next level. I recommend you try it, but that’s not the point of this essay. As I meandered through the site, I...
about 1 month ago • 2 min read
I'm writing this under an enormous redwood tree in Northern California, a thousand miles from home. I’m in a friend’s backyard, having just slept in the top bunk of a tiny cabin. I had almond milk in my coffee and cottage cheese in my pancakes. Being a guest in someone else's home means making a hundred small adjustments—from the density of the pillows to the taste of the water. It reminds me how much of a creature of habit I’ve become. This is my first proper vacation in five years. A couple...
about 1 month ago • 2 min read
Why am I writing this essay? Because it’s almost Friday, and I always send out an essay each Friday. Because I’m a writer, and writers write. Because (most of the time) I love doing this—arranging ideas, picking words. Because I want to see the finished piece. And feel that sense of satisfaction. Because I do this for you. But more, I do this for me. But does it matter why I do this? Absolutely. Because if I mistake my motivations and I’m fuzzy on my goals, I could end up looking for answers...
about 2 months ago • 2 min read
When I was 27, I almost learned to play the piano. I’d gone to a dinner party, and the host—a film editor, not a musician—sat down at an old upright and played something slow and emotional. It wasn’t flashy. He used both hands, sure, but he wasn’t showing off. It sounded like he was speaking with the keys. I remember thinking: I want to do that. The next morning, I looked up local music teachers in the Yellow Pages. Then I paused. It would take years to get good. I imagined scales, clunky...
about 2 months ago • 2 min read
For the last quarter century of his life, my grandfather spent hours each day at his word processor, writing recollections, essays, and articles. He had been a doctor, but like many aging artists and writers, he turned to the page to make sense of the life he had lived. Every decade, he wrote a new version of his autobiography—hundreds of pages of translucent, onion-skinned remembrance. Some he mailed to me or my mother, but most sat in desk drawers or binders, unread, unappreciated. When he...
2 months ago • 3 min read